Stark
by The-Cursed-Daughter
Summary: The excuse was a masterpiece of razor pain and black ink and Egyptian tradition, carved into dark skin. But Bakura didn't tell him that. He just went back to bed.  Malik/Bakura


_This is based on a wonderful drawing by Taemanaku on DeviantArt called Stark. _

_The story is set just before the Millennium World arc, and since I'm not that far in the anime yet, I apologize for any inconsistency with canon._

**_Warnings/Disclaimers: Some swearing, and the word sex is in there, like, once. YGO franchise belongs to whoever it belongs to, but the plot is mine. Also, Malik=hikari, Marik=yami._**

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><p>The scars fascinated Bakura.<p>

They were interesting for many reasons, first and foremost being that Malik was adamant they not be touched or seen, and Bakura liked things people told him not to mess with. Just a habit, really, but he couldn't help himself. They were also gorgeous—not that he would ever _dare_ tell Malik that.

It became almost a game—because everything was a game with them, from dueling to sex to their _relationship_—almost a challenge, where Bakura tried to see the scars as much as possible. Which, as it happened, was harder than he first thought. The deeper he became involved in the game, the more he noticed that Malik was meticulous at hiding them—almost unconsciously, the other man made it nearly impossible to catch them out in the open.

Bakura never asked himself why he started this game. He knew the answer and he didn't like it, and he was almost as good at avoiding things he didn't like as he was at his new game.

If Malik took notice of his roommate's—boyfriend's, lover's, what _should_ Bakura call himself?—new hobby, he didn't say anything. Bakura almost wished he would. It was too easy to figure out when to barge into the bathroom with some bullshit excuse to see Malik coming out of the shower, or set his alarm half an hour earlier to creep into Malik's room while he was still asleep—and Bakura tried to convince himself that that wasn't as creepy as it sounded. He went as far as hiding every single one of Malik's shirts one night, so the former tomb-keeper was forced to spend most of the day shirtless before he called his yami and asked to borrow his clothes. (Marik never did ask his hikari what happened to all of _his_ shirts to begin with, but Marik never did care about much of anything.)

The more frequent his nightmares became, the harder Bakura tried to delve into his game. He created elaborate rules and perfected strategies—he would worry about the past in the future because right now he had his game and that was all he needed to focus on.

"_Why?"_

_He turned, knowing what to expect. Told himself that it was just a dream, that there was nothing to be afraid of. Bakura didn't get _scared_._

"_Why?" _

_The word split into two voices, then three, then ten, then it was a maelstrom of human pain, screaming at him and tearing at his clothes and his ears and his mind until he couldn't speak or breathe or think or scream back that he was _trying_, that he would avenge them, that he _promised _that he would take the pharaoh to the Millennium World and make him _pay_ for what he did—_

And then he was awake, cold sweat down his smooth, unmarred back; because his scars were buried in muscle and sinew, etched in bone, and written in blood. Bakura wore a piece of his scar around his neck, and in the room across the apartment, Malik kept another piece stuffed under the bed. He couldn't cover his hate and rage and pain—it was there for anyone who knew him well enough to see.

There were still five minutes until his alarm went off, but he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, debating pulling pants on over his boxers but deciding against it. His door opened silently—motor oil was good for _everything_—and he slunk across through the apartment, sidestepping the linoleum floor of the kitchenette.

"Where are you going?"

Bakura didn't jump, but he did turn his head to see Malik on the couch, absently channel-surfing with the sound off. A fleece hoodie was pulled firmly over his torso. The thief shrugged, nonchalance plastered his face while his heart pounded in his throat. "I was going to steal the Millennium Rod, slit your throat, and run to Jamaica. I'd invite you to come along, but I don't think it would work out."

Malik didn't take his eyes off of him as he switched from an infomercial about hair loss to a rerun of a game show. Whether or not he believed Bakura, he said nothing more than, "Quit fucking with the thermostat—there's no excuse for it being ninety degrees in the house."

There was. The excuse was a masterpiece of razor pain and black ink and Egyptian tradition, carved into dark skin. But Bakura didn't tell him that. He just went back to bed.

_The Ring was bolted to his flesh. In his panic, he had torn off his shirt and ripped the cord from around his neck, but the Ring stayed where it was, fastened to his chest, his skin bubbling as it ate away at him. If he looked at it long enough, the pyramid in the center morphed into another lost face; his mother, his sister, the man who sold dates on holy day—_

_The prongs clinked together, echoing as wails and the sounds of war and Bakura dug his fingers into his chest and _pulled_, but it wouldn't come _off_ and he could smell his flesh _burning_ as the Ring and the screams and the faces sought to meld themselves into his torso._

_He screamed until he was sure he was just another voice lost in time._

_Cool hands slid around his chest from behind and Bakura flinched as they slipped around the Ring. With a tug that felt like he was being jerked out of his body and back again, Bakura watched as the hands removed the Ring from his chest, leaving behind smooth skin. _

"_Better?"_

_The new voice wasn't screaming or crying or begging. Bakura turned, wary, and Malik smiled at him as he held up the Ring to the thief's inspection. "Who were they?"_

"_The people of Kuru Eruna." Bakura ran a hand through his hair. "They hate me."_

"_Is this why you're taking the pharaoh to the Millennium World?"_

_Bakura snarled. "He's going to pay for this. For everything."_

_Malik smiled again. "I believe you." Muscle in his chest and arms flexed—he wasn't wearing a shirt; how had Bakura not noticed?—as he twisted around and whipped the Ring far away from them. It winked golden as it spun away into the blank distance._

"_It'll just come back," the thief told him._

_The other man still hadn't turned around. "It's at least a moment's peace."_

"_I suppose you're right, but—" Bakura stopped. Malik finally faced him again, but he couldn't get the image of the man's back out of his mind. "Where are your scars?"_

"_My what?"_

_This is a dream, he'll wake up soon, there's nothing to be scared of, there's _nothing_ to be scared of, why is he _scared_? "Your scars."_

_Malik was still smiling. "What scars?"_

This time, when Bakura wakes up, the sun is throwing its rays far into the room and his alarm had already given up trying to rouse him. It croaks feebly, the battery dying, as he throws off the sheets and stumbles into his pants, shoving open his door and tripping over himself as he runs down the hall.

Malik is still in his room this morning, sitting on the edge of the bad and staring at the wall when Bakura barges in. Startled, he begins to reach for his hoodie, but Bakura shouts, _"No!"_ His voice is rough and harsh and for fuck's sake, he sounds scared because he _is_ scared. "Don't. Please." Malik looks like he might pull on the shirt anyway, so Bakura takes the choice away from him. He's at the edge of the bed almost instantly, his arms wrapping around the tomb-keeper and there's marred skin under his fingers and he squeezes, hard.

They stay like that for a long time before Malik mumbles, "Your hair is in my face."

Bakura chuckles, but doesn't move. "I don't care." The pads of his fingers run over scars and Malik squirms, but the thief doesn't budge and man gives up with a heave of his chest.

"Today is the day, isn't it?"

Bakura doesn't move, doesn't answer, doesn't think for the longest time. Finally, he unwinds his arms and pulls back, looming over Malik. "I'm going to make him pay."

"I believe you," Malik says, and for a moment Bakura's heart is in his throat and he has to remind himself of the feeling of raised skin under his palms before he's sure he isn't dreaming. He slumps to the ground, leaning against the wall and bringing his knees to his chest. Malik stares at him and asks, "Do you have to go?"

He's known the answer to this question too, and he doesn't like it any more than he likes the other one. "I have no choice. I've wasted too much time already."

Another long silence, and then the Egyptian shrugs, stands, and offers Bakura a hand up. "I suppose I'll see you off, then." He hauls the other man to his feet and heads down the hall, intent on breakfast.

Bakura stays where he is, rooted to the ground. "Wait!" Malik turned. "Aren't you going to get dressed?"

Malik shrugs again. "All my shirts seem to have gone missing again."

Ignoring the hoodie slung haphazardly across the bedspread, Bakura grins and follows him into the kitchen.

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><p><em>Reviews are lovely.<em>

_Kit_


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